Chapter 2: Mumbai Rent, Maggi, and Roommate Rules

I work in online media, just started out, and my income barely covers the basics.

Fresh out of college, hustling as a digital content creator and still getting calls from home about when I’ll finally settle down, I’m always broke by the 10th. My parents think I’m writing for some ‘big newspaper’. If only they knew what that really means these days.

Food, clothes, rent, transport—I pinch every rupee I can. There’s a little mental calculator in my head, totalling the price of every Maggi packet, litre of petrol, and Ola ride. You know the drill—end of the month, rationing Parle-G, wondering if chai and air will get you through.

So I found a place that was dirt cheap.

This flat was the kind of bargain you get only if your karma is very good or you’re seriously cursed. The minute I saw the peeling paint and the old chowkidar snoring at the gate, I knew—this was it.

Sixth floor, no lift, and the stairwell smells of old socks and something I don’t even want to name. Every time I trudge up, I console myself—at least my thighs will look like Virat Kohli’s soon. The walls have cracks big enough for a mouse to rent their own 1BHK.

Calling it bare-bones would be generous. Here, the fans wobble, tube lights flicker like Diwali, and the paint chips off if you breathe too hard.

Everything you’d expect was technically there, but most of it was either broken or barely usable. One chair wobbled like it was auditioning for Nach Baliye, the gas stove hissed suspiciously, and even the water purifier looked tired—red light blinking since I moved in.

Luckily, I’m a guy—not too fussy. As long as there’s a roof, I’m good. Mom would faint if she saw the bathroom, but I just shrug—after all, Mumbai mein flat mil gaya, that’s a miracle.

Rent’s only eight thousand rupees for two bedrooms and a hall—a steal. My friends still don’t believe it. Some say it’s haunted, but I tell them: as long as the ghosts pay rent, no problem.

Meera rented here for the same reason: it’s cheap, and only a five-minute walk to her Andheri office.

Her office is some tech startup—everyone wears sneakers and talks in code. She loves that she can wake up at 8:45 and still make her 9 am stand-up. Mumbai traffic will turn anyone into a monk.

Ever since she moved in, sharing the place, my life has been a daily lesson in patience, all courtesy of Meera madam.

When the broker first told me a woman would be moving in, I was against it. My first thought: ‘Yeh toh problem hi problem hai, bhai!’ My mother would’ve fainted—‘Beta, live with a girl? What will the neighbours say?’ But this is Mumbai—even the aunty downstairs has seen it all.

We’re adults now—way past those Bollywood fantasies where sharing a flat means romance. Life is more about sharing tiffin space and fighting over the last Maggi.

A new roommate means trouble: less privacy, more shoes at the door, more hair in the bathroom drain, and definitely more squabbles over TV remote and fridge shelves.

So why did I agree? Because of two WhatsApp messages.

If I’m honest, my heart is weak for money. The broker with his cunning smile could sell anything—especially over WhatsApp.

First, he sent a transfer notice: from this month, rent would be split fifty-fifty, and he PayTM’d me 4,000 rupees. That PayTM beep is music to a broke person’s ears. ‘Rent ka burden aadha ho gaya, bhai!’ I actually did a little dance in the kitchen.

Second, he sent a chat with Meera’s photo. No filters, big smile, ponytail—she looked like the type who’d have ten thousand Instagram followers without even trying. I couldn’t help staring a little longer than necessary. Thumb slipped, zoomed in like some cheap detective. ‘Arrey, focus, man!’

For a second, I thought—maybe having a beauty around isn’t so bad. Terrible thought, but I’m only human. The idea of a pretty face in the house made my days seem… less dull.

On her first day, I tried to be a gentleman: ‘Need a hand?’ Ready to impress. But fate had other plans.

"Let me help you with your suitcase."

"Did you wash your hands?"

The way she said it, eyebrows raised, one hand on the handle, I was caught off guard—like I’d been caught stealing gulab jamun from the fridge. My hand froze in midair, and I just stood there, awkward and blinking. She didn’t even hide her smirk.

I awkwardly stepped aside, hands in pockets, praying my face wasn’t as red as it felt. She dragged the giant suitcase in without help, and I forgot to even introduce myself.

She didn’t bother either. The moment she walked in, her brows furrowed as she scanned the ancient TV, patched sofa, and crooked Ganpati frame. I knew what was coming—the musty, decaying smell. Mumbai monsoon’s gift: no matter how many naphthalene balls you use, the smell stays. I’d gotten used to it; clearly, she hadn’t.

Back when I moved in, I’d tried Odonil. The flat just soaked it up and spat out more staleness.

"You have a key, right? I’m heading out."

Her ‘hmm’ was pure Mumbai: all attitude, little patience. I didn’t argue—just walked out.

For a moment, I thought of reminding her about the water meter. Then decided, chhod na yaar, let her figure it out.

That night, I ate vada pav with Ashwin at the tapri, sipped thumbs-up from a glass bottle. By the time I trudged up all six floors, my stomach was full, my head heavy.

I stumbled into my room and froze. The door was open just a crack, light spilling onto the corridor tiles. My mind went straight to ‘ghost story’ mode.

The chaos that was my room—printouts, notes, mugs—was gone. Everything lined up in neat rows. Even my socks had been paired and rolled up like sushi.

The sight was so shocking I almost called my mother to ask if she’d sent a maid. But then I remembered: I don’t have a maid. Just Meera.

Honestly, having a neat freak around wasn’t so bad. For a minute, I considered hiring her to sort my email inbox too. At least my socks had found their soulmates.

I slept like a baby that night. For once, the lumpy mattress and creaky springs didn’t bother me. I dozed off with a content sigh, dreaming of a world where deadlines met themselves.

The next day, at work, I realized my pen drive was missing. My heart sank—losing a pen drive is like losing a kidney. I searched everywhere—under the bed, in the laundry, behind Ganpati. Nothing.

"Uh... Meera, did you tidy up my room yesterday?"

She was brushing her teeth in the kitchen, faded red kurta and pyjamas, toothbrush bobbing. I almost laughed.

"No need to thank me." Head down, words muffled.

"That’s not what I meant. Did you see a few A4 sheets on my desk?"

She paused, spat into the sink, wiped her mouth.

"I threw them out."

My jaw dropped. Throwing out someone’s things? In India, that’s a bigger crime than eating the last piece of mithai without asking.

"Arrey, didi, couldn’t you have asked before tossing my things?"

"They were all drawings of ghosts and monsters. I got creeped out just looking at them."

"I’m a paranormal blogger! What do you expect me to draw if not ghosts?"

She turned around, wiping toothpaste foam from her mouth. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

"Whatever, that’s not the main thing. Did you see my pen drive on the desk?"

"Didn’t see it."

"You were the only one in my room yesterday. If you didn’t see it, who did?"

She was busy packing her office bag, fixing her hair in the hall mirror.

"I have to get to work. It’s just a broken pen drive, I’ll buy you a new one."

"Didi, it’s not just a pen drive! There were dozens of gigs of stuff on there."

"What, you mean—movies?"

"Movies, my foot! I mean inspiration!"

If only I’d backed up my files to Google Drive, but data pack khatam tha.

"I don’t know, I didn’t touch it. Don’t block the door."

She slung her bag over her shoulder, lips pressed tight, and left. The main door banged shut, shaking down a few dust motes—along with my broken heart.

I watched the dust dance in the sunlight, feeling like the world’s most misunderstood artist. All for the sake of cleanliness!

After eight that night, she came back from work.

The flat was quiet except for the distant sizzle of pakoras from next door. Meera’s footsteps echoed as she kicked off her Kolhapuris.

She didn’t look at me, but her fingers fidgeted with the plastic wrapper, tearing it open and tossing the bits on the table. She tossed me a brand new portable hard drive—1TB, still in plastic. My heart did a somersault, but I hid it.

"This one has more storage, bigger capacity. Less likely to lose."

"Is this about storage?" I tossed the drive aside. "Ek baat karni hai, serious waali."

She threw her bag into her room, didn’t even take off her dupatta, sat on the sofa, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Bolo."

She sat cross-legged, all cool, but her fingers kept twitching on her dupatta, and her eyes darted to where my pen drive used to be.

"I won’t make a fuss about the pen drive, but just because I’m not making a fuss doesn’t mean it wasn’t important. It’s just pointless to argue about it now. From today, let’s set some ground rules for public and private spaces."

She nodded, almost too quickly—like she’d been waiting for me to bring it up.

We hashed it out: living room, bathroom, kitchen are public spaces. After a heated debate about shoes at the door, we settled on rules: public spaces clean and neutral, bedrooms private.

"No entering each other’s rooms without knocking, haan!"

The balcony was her private space—she needed it to dry certain ‘delicate’ things like lingerie. My room got the sun, so I dried my stuff inside. Her room faced the shade, tough for drying.

We both looked everywhere except at each other, pretending the word 'lingerie' had never been uttered in the history of the building.

She agreed to pay water and electricity bills since she used the balcony more. I didn’t argue—a lighter bill is a lighter heart.

After setting the rules, she retreated to her room, wailing "Wooo wooo" like I’d kicked her puppy. The walls echoed with her fake sobs, and I had to stuff my fist in my mouth to keep from laughing.

Her drama got louder. I hovered near her door, rubbing my nose, wondering if I’d bullied her. I barely use any water or electricity, didn’t make her pay extra.

I considered a ‘Sorry’—then decided, let her have her moment. Regular flatmate drama, yaar.